


Bombshell

by ForFutureReference



Series: Aftermath [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Dex is my whump son, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Zimbits is a background plot point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 14:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13320069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForFutureReference/pseuds/ForFutureReference
Summary: When Bitty and Jack kissed on the center ice, they sent ripples throughout the hockey-watching world. Even into the most isolated locales. Reactions vary, and how people react can have an effect in ways they don't expect. Takes place after the Cup Finals and ensuing celebrations. REVISED IN THE WAKE OF YEAR FOUR.





	Bombshell

There some moments in your life when you know that something catastrophic is coming but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

You have to bear that feeling of helplessness despite your mind tearing itself apart playing out all of the possible scenarios that could unfold.  Despite the constricted breaths, sleepless nights, and twisted insides weighing on your body as you get closer to zero hour. Despite everything, you just have to suck it up.

I’ve done it before. I can do it now.

I’m with over half the village crammed into Aunt Trish & Uncle Jim’s diner, and all eyes are fixed on the diner’s new sixty-inch OLED screen where my former captain is about to make a seventh-game overtime shot that will earn the Providence Falconers the Stanley Cup.

I know who is going to win as this scene already played out over a week ago. Championship games tend to finish late, so we would focus on work and generally avoid news until we could all get together as a community to watch a recording. After all, unless there’s a personal investment, there’s no point in losing productive sleep before a work day.

This year though, I was able to not only watch the game live but did so in Providence.

Unlike the alumni who had seats with Bitty, I held down the fort with Chowder and Nursey at Jack’s apartment. Though I bet that any stranger could have waltzed right in and eaten our snacks right next to us without being noticed. I can remember the play-by-play, but the night went by in a cuss-laden blur. The only lasting evidence of how I was feeling were the gouge marks along my arm and slight crescents in my palms. I do know that we never let our eyes leave the screen as it went into fucking overtime.

Through overtime, I never noticed how much I’ve been holding my breath until Jack made the shot that brought the Falcs victory. At that moment, that held breath exploded out into a scream and joined the screams of my friends into a collective holler loud enough to be heard back in Samwell.

We were still celebrating — as was everyone else, evident by the chorus of shouts and honking of car horns pouring in from outside — when we saw Bitty running across the ice right into Jack’s arms. Because of course. Still, even as I rolled my eyes, I smirked and raised my bottle to them. Jack not only deserved the Cup; the two deserved all the happiness they can get.

Still didn’t prevent me from wanting to make a chirp out of Ransom and Holster probably being bummed that they can’t charge fines anymore.

Then the chirp died in my mouth, a horrible weight settled in my stomach, and blood drained from my face as realization hit.

Bitty was leaning back and gazing straight into Jack’s eyes. Something was said, and the serious look between the two turned into smiles.

Then they kissed.

Not the affectionate pecks that garnered so many fines. No, it was the intense lip-locked version that they indulged in whenever they thought nobody was watching; their expectation was frequently not the reality, but hey.

After the game, I didn’t say anything about what happened on the center ice. The state of Bitty’s phone was testament to the fact that he and Jack already had enough on their minds. And everyone else was so happy and showing them support. Nobody needed me barging in with the kind of issues that will just raise all kinds of questions.

In any case, that scene is about to be replayed here.

As the puck goes into the net, the diner erupts into cheers. Even if my village didn’t know that Jack was my captain, the Falconers being a New England team is reason enough to root for them. But honestly, I think they’re making a bigger deal about this championship than prior ones because of my connection to the Falcs.

As I add my voice to the collective cheer despite having been spoiled already, a part of me hopes that connection won’t cause them to make a bigger deal about other more personal concerns.

Though maybe they won’t have to.

As footage transitions to the postgame, I take my chance and scramble for the remote. With the focus now on celebration and general conversation, nobody should notice me turning  the television off. 

As I mash the remote’s buttons, the room goes silent.

They’ll probably tell me off for messing with the controls. I don’t care. It’s not like there’s anything to watch now since it’s just the post-game. All I’m doing is keeping the electricity bill down.

Then I see the blue light reflected off the countertop.  _No. This isn’t happening. Nonono…_

As I raise my head, my stomach drops.

In grabbing the remote, I hadn’t turned off the television. I only muted it.

A delusional part of me still hopes that the camera will cut away. That those fucking journo seagulls will find something else to focus on other than my two friends being able to happily embrace without fear.

Of course, the cameras don’t turn away.

So I turn away instead.

And immediately regret my decision.

Everyone in the diner has their eyes locked onto the screen. There’s no more joy on their faces.

Just shock.

For some, their surprise is muted and hints that they got the news beforehand one way or another. However, even they watch the scene unfold in disbelief.

A disbelief being expressed in wide eyes and frozen expressions.

I steel myself for what will come after that shock. I hope that they’ll accept Jack and Bitty. I hope that they will accept the player they were cheering on just minutes beforehand. Either way, at least I will know where they stand.

Finally, Pa breaks the silence:

“Huh.”

_… What._

I wait for him to add onto that. Any kind of elaboration. Anything.  _Anything!_

Uncle Miguel looks in my direction. As does everyone else.  _Dammit, anything but focusing on me._

“The blond boy…” he notes, “that’s your captain next year, aye?”

I almost gag in my attempt to get my throat unstuck. “A-ayuh.”

“… Huh.”

_Oh for FUCK’S SAKE!_

Aunt Meg chimes in: “I mean, from what you told us about the blond one, I can kind of see it? Didn’t you say he’s a bit…?” She makes a limp-wrist gesture.

I’m saved from answering  _that_  by Uncle Jeremy. “Yeah, no surprise there. But Jack Zimmermann?”

By now, the whole diner is overcome by a low chorus of questions, bafflement, and speculation… most of which is aimed at me as if I have all of the damn answers. That’s not getting into those damn noncommittal grunts, as well as a bucketful of confusion from my younger cousins; one just asked me if that means Bitty is the girl.

While there are some comments of disapproval about how Bitty and Jack are making a scene, nobody’s explicitly disparaging or condemning the two. Which I guess is good? But nobody’s offering notes of support or at least acceptance either; though I suppose the comments about the “gutsiness” of the move count as a positive.

Overall, nobody seems to know what to think about this. If they do know, they certainly aren’t letting their thoughts be heard.

It’s pissing me off.

“So Zimmermann’s gay,” states a cousin.

“Bisexual,” I correct.

“Huh.”

 _Okay, that’s it!_ I all but throw my hands up as I move for the exit.

“You  _knew_.”

The hissed accusation stops me in my tracks. It’s from the one person who would have a stance. I turn to see Uncle Owen glaring right in my face.

“I… I—“

“I’m not just talking about l… _that_.” He punctuates his statement with a grimace of disgust and gesture at the screen. “You knew those two were screwing each other.” Each syllable is accompanied with him jabbing his finger into my chest.

In this moment, it doesn’t matter how much hockey has built me up. I feel like I’m a scrawny ten-year-old again, and each jab forces me backwards. With each step back, the diner gets more and more quiet as all attention focuses on the two of us.

“How long, boy?” he spits. “How. Long?”

“Since…” I hate how small my voice sounds. I hate how those around me, even though they downright loathe Uncle Owen, are curious for an answer. I hate how part of me wants to give more information than they expect but… can’t. “Since December.”

Actually longer, but nobody needs to know.

Nobody needs to know anything.

“Only two years in that libtard ‘school’, and you’re just full of surprises,” Uncle Owen muses. “Wasn’t the captain elected unanimously by the team?”

“Yes.”  _Shit!_  My answer comes out just as I realize why he asked that question. But it’s too late to take it back.

“So you knew the little shit’s a pervert and still voted for him?”

“He’s not a pervert.” I grit out as my hands ball into fists.

“So  _you_  say,” he sneers. “And I hear you’re spending the next year in the same house.”

A small part of me feels relief that he doesn’t know that I’m going to room with Nursey. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to control myself right now if the shit he spews goes in  _that_  direction. “The rent’s better.”

“Hah. Of course that’s your excuse: ‘The rent’s better.’” There’s a gleam in his eyes that’s too knowing for my liking. “What other faggoty secrets—“

“That’s  _enough_ , Owen,” Pa growls while shoving his way through the crowd. “Leave my son alone.”

My father may be leaning his cane and may have kept his right arm back home. But in this moment, he looks ready to kick any able-bodied asshole’s ass.

Uncle Owen sputters, “You’re willing to let this Cultural Marxism—“

“I don’t give a flying fuck if Billy has a Little Red Book in his back pocket. You say another goddamn word to him tonight, and I’ll convince Shannon to finally cut you out of her life for good.” Pa doesn’t even raise his voice, but it’s enough to make everyone take a step back. “That will be after I rearrange your face to be as ugly as mine.”

I don’t know how long the standoff lasts. I only know that Uncle Owen is the one to back down and storm out… and that the bloody crescents in my palms are going to last a bit.

As if to enforce a sense of normalcy, the collective conversation picks right back up where it left off. This is despite the subject of the conversation being anything but normal. Pa nods to the door, and the two of us take our leave to begin the walk back home.

As the sounds of the diner fade, I check my phone. Besides the general rambling of everyone, Nursey’s making cryptic suggestions to check the national business news in the coming week.

Finally, I look up from my phone and back at Pa. “… You do know I’m no tankie, right?”

Pa chuckles. “Ayuh. Was just making a point.”

 _Heh, yeah. A point._  He’s just saying that he’d love me no matter what. But would his love really be so unconditional if I actually started spouting commie, nazi, or beardie propaganda? I know mine wouldn’t.

_So then why did he bring it up?_

_Uncle Owen was the one who said ‘Marxism’ first, and Pa was just taking the statement to its logical conclusion. Don’t think too much of it._

_But did Pa rebuke Uncle Owen because what was being said was wrong? Or was it just because I was attacked?_

_If Uncle Owen made his language just focused on “them gaysexuals”, would Pa make the same statement except with the Little Red Book replaced by a rainbow flag? If he did, would that mean he considers being queer as bad as a communist?_

I know that I should really be giving my father more credit than that, and there’s a heavy weight in my stomach at the fact that I would even have doubts. But still…

Pa nudges me. “Something on your mind?”

“Just…” _Okay, deep breaths._ “Just thinking about the coming year.” Which is technically the truth.

That gets a nod from him. “It will be interesting. No doubt about that.”

 _Yeah… interesting._ I can just see the attention Bitty will get between him being Jack’s boyfriend and the first out NCAA ice hockey captain. Media may even come to Samwell.

_People will know Bitty lives at the Haus. People will know where the Haus is; even if the media doesn’t divulge the location, it’s not like it’s hard to find due to all the damn kegsters._

_What if we get paparazzi waiting for Jack whenever he comes to Samwell? What if there is paparazzi obsessed with Bitty himself? What if we get assholes who decide that spewing shit in a comment feed won’t cut it?_

_We don’t even keep the door locked. But even if we get the Haus secure, we have to walk to campus. Even in school, it’s not like they gate off the campus and limit access._

_We should put in new locks and give out a limited set of keys. Convince the frats to install a surveillance system along the whole street. Maybe we’ll even have to stop hosting kegsters so often._

_We should do something. We need to do something. We need to do something now! We need to try to keep several steps ahead of them even though they’ll keep trying to find a new way. That includes at our games._

_The away games. Fuck. I forgot about the away games. FUCK!_

_Shit. We’re fucked. We’re so f—_

“Billy!”

Pa’s voice forces me to stop walking, and it’s then that I see that I’m at least twenty yards ahead.  _Billy, you fucking idiot. Hell of a son you are._

“Shit,” I blurt out while rushing back. “I-I’m so—”

Pa cuts me off: “Enough of that. Right now, I just need you to breathe.”

It’s only at his request that I realize my breath are coming in rapid gasps. I try to do as I’ve been taught but can’t seem to get anything under control as my vision blurs and pressure builds behind my eyes.  _Oh, now you’re gonna cry about it? You gonna cry, you fucking little p_ _—_

A gentle pressure settles around my wrist, and I feel my trembling hand firmly pried away from my arm. The action forces me to look up and see Pa heaving deep even breaths to focus on. It’s not easy, but eventually I force myself back on track.

Once stability’s restored, Pa tentatively asks, “What’s the matter, Billy?”

This time, I don’t have to make the truth a technicality: “Just wondering how the school’s going to deal with the media and security issues.”

Pa nods and thankfully doesn’t ask me to elaborate. “I’m sure they’ll figure something out.”

I’m also thankful that he leaves it at that and doesn’t try to further any reassurance as we continue walking in silence.

A silence which only lasts for another few minutes. “So… your captains are together.”

When Pa comments like that, without the crowds around, the situation feels even more naked than before. 

Maybe I can get something out of it though.

“Ayuh,” I mutter. “Did you know? Before this?”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t have time to reads the news.”

While I believe that he didn’t find out until now, I have a harder time accepting his explanation why. However, now’s not the time to get into that. “What do you think?”

My question comes out as a whisper that keeps any emotion in reserve.

Pa looks off at some unspecified point. “Well, I can say that my bombshell doesn’t compare to the one they set off,” he remarks with a wry smile and a waving of his forearm stump around the right side of his face.

 _Jesus Christ…_  “Jesus Christ, Pa.” It’s not like he hasn’t made similar jokes before, but I still fail to find them funny.

Pa rolls his eye and thumps me on the back. “To answer your question… I don’t know what to think. Though it’s not like it affects us,” he states with a shrug.

 _It affects us more than you think._  “You do know that a lot of queers come Downeast, right?”

“Sure, and I know they help keep this economy afloat. Make great music too. They’re still just passing through except for a few staying up in Mount Desert at most.”

So is that how it will be okay? As long as distance is maintained?

“Well one's going to be officially leading me.”

Pa creases his brow. “Yeah, he is, isn’t he.”

“The other  _did_  lead me, and it’s not like he became magically bi after graduation.”

“Hm…”

My jaw clenches.  _At least it’s not fucking “huh”._

Our porch light shines into view and guides us inside. Once we get to the kitchen, Pa takes his prescribed painkillers while I watch; I know it’s irrational of me as he hasn’t gotten hooked so far, and it’s not like I’m here all the time, but I can’t help it after a few recent cases.

As he sets his glass down, Pa sighs, “Look, Billy. I know they’re your friends. So maybe I don’t get it. Doesn’t matter. I trust your judgement.”

_It does matter._

_But still…_  “Thank you.”

“Hell, they’re welcome to stop by.” Pa barely finishes his statement before barking out a laugh and shaking his head. For a brief moment my stomach clenches until he murmurs, “Like a Falconer would come here…”

I hide my relief with a huff: “You never know. You saw how full of surprises they are.”

That gets a much warmer laugh from him. “Ayuh. They really don’t do anything halfway, do they.”

For once, I allow myself to join in on the laughs. Maybe everything can be alright. Maybe it will be alright.

 _Maybe… just maybe…_ “Pa, I—”

“Anyways, I’m not sure if I can handle any more surprises,” Pa chuckles before looking up at me. “You say something?”

 _… it will be a disaster._  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

I say goodnight, Pa pulls me in for a one-armed hug, and I make the obligatory noises of protest when he kisses my forehead.  

Then I walk to my room and shut the door to whisper into the darkness enveloping me:

“Nothing at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come swing by my [tumblr](http://randomnoteforfuturereference.tumblr.com) if you so wish.


End file.
